


Four Scars

by cheddarbiscuit



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anachronism Stew, Four Swords AU, Ganondorf is there, Industrial Age, Pipit does detective work, just on the off chance I need him, so many characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 04:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheddarbiscuit/pseuds/cheddarbiscuit
Summary: An assassination attempt. A runaway bride. A dead paperboy.That transfer to Slyloft can't come too quickly for Constable Pipit.





	Four Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if people still do disclaimers anymore, but just in case: I don't do this for profit. Nobody's paying me for this, and I would turn down money for it if it was offered. All I want are words of support and praise.

The early morning fog wrapped around the steps of the temple. A single wagon rattled down the stone street. The horses were small and yellow, speckled with rust red. The wagon was covered with a dirty grey cloth and the wooden wheels creaked and groaned. It came to a stop in front of the temple steps and one of the boys splashed into the reeking gutter water. He reached under the tarp. With a little grunt he pulled two stacks of heavy news papers, neatly stacked and bound with twine. He carried them, staggering a little, to the steps of the temple where he set them down and watched, quietly, as the wagon rattled away, boys still sitting on the edges. They swayed and bounced as the wheels bounced on the jagged street, and then they vanished.

The boy should have been given long trousers ages ago, and his hair should have been cut last week. It was long, brown and shaggy, and a little greasy. He stood quiet in the lamplight and watched the fog roll across the park. He could see the beautiful red glow of Din’s fire on the far side. It always burned. He could hear the fountain, then he could hear the loud clattering of hooves on the street. A carriage raced past. The horses were white, or they might have been grey. Ben blinked and it was gone. He listened to it fade away. Then he stretched, and sat down on his stack of papers.

The sky started to turn from ink black to deep purple. Ben kicked out his feet and waited until the uncomfortable stack of papers made his backside sore and his spine ache. He looked down the street. He was expecting someone. He heard another set of wheels, and saw a pair of shadows emerge from the fog. A woman with long red hair, and blonde girl pushing a wheelbarrow of flowers. The woman’s dress was blue; ten years faded, five years patched and twenty years out of style. The girl’s dress was a deep purple, and made for her to grow into.

They stopped on the other side of the stairs. The little blonde lass let the handle of the wheelbarrow fall so that it stopped at an incline. Ben watched as the red haired woman adjusted the white shawl on her shoulders. The girl looked at Ben, and Ben smiled. The woman looked at Ben, too, but she did not smile. She fixed one of the girl’s stray blonde locks, and wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheeks, “Remember, don’t talk to strangers...”

“Why do you say that so  _ much _ these days?”

“Because more strangers want to talk to you, Aryll.” Marin warned, “And once you let them start, they won’t stop.”

“But Marin—”

“If you run into any trouble, the police station is just there.” Aryll knew that. Ben knew Aryll knew that. Marin was just saying it to soothe herself. She glanced sidelong at Ben. Ben felt personally attacked. Two months he had been selling papers here and not  _ once _ had he done anything to be shunned for! She looked back to Aryll, “I’ll be back by sundown.”

Then she kissed her on the forehead and straightened one final lock of hair. Ben envied her. He longed for a family, even if it was just a sister. Marin made a point of drawing her shawl tighter and refusing to look at Ben or buy one of his papers. Ben watched her go as the sky turned to pink, then gold. When she had disappeared, he turned to Aryll. She tugged the cloth from her wagon; she was selling flowers. That was nothing new. She had some flowers kept in her yard, Ben knew that, but he had never seen anyone with so many Silent Princesses. She never said where she got them. Ben had never asked, but he was certain if he did, Aryll would not tell him.

His seat had made him totally numb. He picked himself up and brushed off the seat of his pants. He checked for Marin. She was gone. He crossed the steps and stopped in front of her, “Mornin’!”

“Hi, Ben.”

In the street lights, Ben stooped over her cart of flowers. Pickings were slim that day, but with two other sources of income, Aryll only sold flowers to keep herself occupied, and to cover any small costs that the trio should find. Ben helped himself to the place at her side.

No one came to the temple. Not yet. These people were workers, just like Aryll’s family. They were the unfortunates, maybe even illiterate. Maybe just too tired, living with too tight a purse-string to read the news first-hand. They were little more than ghosts in the mist that relied to gossip and rumors. Ben counted himself lucky that he could, at least, read. He tried to spy details to distract himself from the cold and keep his mind awake. He saw a Moblin with a broken horn, a Goron with a smoking head, and a a drunkard staggering against the tide of men and women making their way to work.

“How are things?”

“The same.”

Ben hummed. It was light enough to see the park, not just hear the sound of the fountain and see the flame. The layout was predictable—a large triforce stretching from a great library to the police station to the front gates of the castle, guess which end pointed where. The Temple had a good view of the park, as it was tucked between the police station and the library. Brick pathways marked the borders of the triangles and the space between them was a raised platform of stone with an empty pedestal, waiting for a sword. Some people thought it was for the Master Sword. Ben was not so sure, though he would admit he knew of no  _ other _ legendary blade. 

Ben tucked his hands away between his belly and his legs to keep his fingers warm in the cold morning. Aryll was far more ladylike. Ben’s eyes wandered around the park. Each triangle had a statue of one of the Goddesses inside it. Farore stood stoic in the middle of a flowering green maze, a sword in one hand, a shield standing under the other. Nayru laid in repose in the middle of a bubbling fountain. Din sat in meditation with her eternal red flame in the middle of a combed garden of sand. Other people called it  _ zen _ . Ben thought it was strange, but he never said so.

The lamplighter passed. He came by when the sun set, too. He must sleep during the day. It was the only thing that made sense; light the lamps at night, spend the night awake, and extinguish them in the morning, and sleep the day away. Or perhaps he had two jobs. He never seemed to rush, so Ben did not think so. He made his way around the park, using his damper on one light, then the next.

The two sat in comfortable silence and shared warmth as the sun started to rise and the world started to turn in earnest. The bells in the temple belfry rang five times, to signal the start of the day, new petrol engines billowing black smoke into the sky, the trolleys rattling down their tracks, and the hooves of horses pulling private carriages and taxis. From around the corner, a young man in a pink waistcoat and blue jacket marched to the temple steps. He had a stack of papers in a portfolio and books in a leather bag at his side. An elaborate horse-drawn carriage pulled to a stop before the steps. High sage Rauru climbed own with a little grunting, a little huffing. He was quite old, a little gouty, and very fat. The constable rounded the corner, swinging his nightstick and whistling like a bird.

Ben jumped up. It was time to work. The whistling drew closer and Ben’s hands flew to the knot in the twine, ripping it open as the sound of the man’s hard heels came to the steps of the temple and High Sage Rauru started to labor up the first step.

“Good Morning, Const—”

“ _ Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Princess Zelda’s bodyguard found turned to stone! _ ” The Constable forgot about buying his daily flower. He slipped behind High Sage Rauru and snatched the paper out of his hands. Ben protested, “ _ You’d better pay for that paper, sir _ !”

“The press was  _ not _ to print this..!”

“The people have a right to know!” Ben pitched his voice into the street, “Hear the story the police are trying to silence right here, folks!” he grabbed a second paper and waved it frantically to the people walking by, “Read all about it! Princess Zelda’s Bodyguard found turned to stone!”

For once, High Sage Rauru wanted one of his papers.

“You..! Ben..!” Constable Motacill let his arm go with a huff. Ben was not afraid of him because he was not a mean man, just a strict one, and Ben had never seen him lay hands on anyone before. He was certain to use the gentlest care, even when arresting them, “What you just did was very clever and I’m proud of you but  _ damn it _ Ben!”

Aryll giggled. Constable Motacill slapped the crumpled paper against his palm and paid Ben two rupees for it. High Sage Rauru coughed some kind of approval, or request, or  _ something _ and dropped five rupees into Ben waiting hand with a quick, “Keep the change, boy.”

“Yessir!” Ben chirped.

“Hey, kid!” a voice whispered from behind him. It was the man in the pink waistcoat. His hair was a mess. His glasses were askew. There were leaves in his hair. It looked like there were droplets of wine, perhaps blood, splashed under his hair and across his forehead. Ben was very familiar with Link Delaire and his peculiar birthmark. “Here’s two rupees. Give me a copy. Quick.”

Ben made the trade. The man stuffed the paper in his bag and scrambled up, jumping over the handrail to meet High Sage Rauru at the door of the Temple, “Sir, if I could just have your attention for a—”

“No! No, don’t talk nonsense! Get out of here, boy.”

The man skipped the pleading and cut right to the chase, “Sir, did you know that this very day, across Hyrule hundreds of children will die because bread made not with wheat, sir, but with  _ building plaster?  _ Of milk contaminated by borax put there by the own unsuspecting mothers?”

“Go on you, get lost!”

Another carriage arrived and the minister of trade, Ruto, arrived. Ben was certain to approach her with much more respect, “Buy a paper, m’lady?”

“Thank you, child. Yes.” 

The beautiful Zora woman paid Ben and took the paper in her elegant webbed fingers. Her scales shimmered in the morning light. It was something to see. The Minister of crafts and guilds, which was largely a ceremonial position because of the rise of factories and assembly lines came next, his heavy strides could be felt like an earthquake as he turned around the corner. Ben went back to hollering, “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Princess Zelda’s Bodyguard found turned to stone!”

“I’ll take two.” Darunia said, “We Gorons like to stay informed and there aren’t enough papers in the factories… Goddesses know they don’t pay you enough, either.”

“They don’t pay me at all, sir. My pay comes from my profit.”

Sir Darunia was livid, “ _ Then I’ll take five and give my choice words to the company.” _

“T-thank you sir.” but Ben was not sure Darunia meant for him to be thankful.

The Minister of History and Culture, a Gerudo woman named Nabooru was next to arrive. She had her work cut out for her, as the past was much longer than the present, and much more solid than the future. Still, cut out work was still work that had to be pieced together, so she was always tired, and more than once he caught her sleeping in her carriage. Ben quickly skimmed through the paper looking for something that would be more likely to interest her before he asked, “Buy a paper m’lady?”

“No, I’m very sorry.” she said like she said everyday, “I can’t stand reading bad news.” 

Ben did not like reading bad news, either. Loved to sell it, though. “Then can I interest you in page three? An exclusive interview with daredevil and adventurer Mako Delaire? He talks all about his latest discovery.”

“Mako Delaire is a fraud, at best.” she said, “He’s probably just discovered some discarded ballast and claimed it’s a lost city.”

She was probably right—but she still bought a paper and that was all Ben cared about. The Minister of Agriculture and the interior came next, and only said, “I know, child.” in an ominous tone before his lips had begun to form the words. Ben believed her.

The minister of defense came next, flanked by his daughter. They both marched past Ben, Baron Listfield taking the paper from his hands while he blustered on about  _ expansion _ like it was free, as Miss Listfield dropped two green rupees into his hand. It was like clockwork.

And, like clockwork, Constable Motacill came ambling back down the sidewalk to the temple. He walked towards the stairs, but he took his sweet time doing it, “Link Delaire again, sir?” Aryll asked him.

“He strikes again.” the Constable nodded. He smiled fondly as he sauntered up the stairs. He threw the doors open wide so Ben and Aryll could turn their faces and close their eyes and relish to cool air that came from inside. Constable Motacill went in. The heavy doors closed with a loud thud. The Constable emerged less than two minutes later, pushing the red-haired man in the blue jacket ahead of him.

“Link, you’ve been warned about this. It’s trespassing. It’s harassment.”

“Harassment?” Link Delaire demanded. He twisted around. Constable Motacill had put him in irons this time, “It’s  _ harassment _ for an in informed citizen to try and improve the living situation of his fellow men? It is harassment to try and  _ save _ people?”

“Link was there as my guest!” Miss Listfield tore out of the temple behind them. She made short work of the stairs, because she had no heavy skirts to mind and no corset to restrain her. She wore trousers—not the poufy, proper riding bloomers of demure women; hers were tailored, made of bright red tweed that laced over her narrow waist like she wanted you to  _ dare _ to think of her as a lady.

Ben was only fourteen, but he wished more women would dress like her. 

“My father’s top priority is to ensure that Hyrule’s future soldiers are healthy, informed and  _ not dying in their infancy from food adulteration! _ ”

“We can discuss that down at the police station Miss Listfield.”

“Very well.” She said. She and her tight red trousers marched past the Constable and his charge and raised her hand. She bellowed, “TAXI!”

A taxi skidded to a halt. She climbed in. She rode away. Ben watched the taxi dash forward only to stop in front of the police station. Miss Listfield did not get out. She did not allow it to return for Link Delaire and the Constable. Link Delaire laughed like only a man in love could, and the Constable sighed wearily.

Ben considered joining the army.

The day settled down after that. Aides and clerks came and went, so did lawyers and lobbyists. Ben did not sell another paper to anyone of note, but soon word got around, and Ben did not  _ need _ to draw attention the the latest front page; people were  _ scrambling _ for them. He was down to his last morning paper in a few hours. He gave it to Aryll, as he always did, to keep her flowers damp in the afternoon heat; it was wet and unreadable anyway. She promised him half a cold beef sandwich and half a green apple for it.

“It’s not made with building plaster, is it?”

“No. Marin’s smarter than that.”

The two went back to their silence. Without his papers to distract people, Aryll saw a little more business until the heat of the day and the lunch hour slowed everything to a painful crawl. Aryll ate her half of the sandwich in silence and Ben was careful to make each mouthful of sourdough and cold cuts last. The meat was lean, the last of their Hyliasday roast, and glazed with honey. The apple was sour, and left a tart dryness in his mouth. Aryll offered him some of her strong black tea. It left a  _ bitter _ dryness in his mouth.

When he was done, Ben took advantage of the reduced foot-traffic to stretch out on the steps behind Aryll so he could squeeze in a little peace before he had to start screaming about the world’s ills again. Around two in the afternoon, the aides and clerks returned from distant libraries, then Gonzo came with a cart loaded up with copies of the evening paper, and some extra. Ben took a gamble and traded all of his earnings for promises of juicy details of the front-page story, and an additional story of a runaway bride. Ben did not have to look at it long before he found a good angle to sell it.

“Extra! Extra! New details emerge in investigation! Detective Groose Aracelli finds no signs of a break in at the palace! Who is the traitor living within the royal family’s walls? Find out here!”

A man with flowing dark hair was the first to buy a copy of the evening edition. His suit was disheveled. When he reached into his pocket to pay Ben he pulled out a broken gold cufflink with his mess of rupees. With a hasty thanks, he walked quickly away with his nose buried in the pages. Then he recoiled. His hands closed, crumpling the paper in anger without looking at the front page. Ben burned, but the man seemed to have real emotion when he did it—and he had still  _ paid _ for the paper fairly, and he did not throw it to the ground. Most folks just used it for bum fodder or wrapping fish when they were done, anyway. Ben had no reason to complain.

As the fuming man rounded the corner and vanished, a black carriage drawn by a single horse stopped on the opposite side of the wide street. Ben faced the hair rising on the back of his neck with resignation, not apprehension. Aryll shrank back behind her cart of flowers. Three Gerudo got out; two women, one man. The man was the  _ only _ Gerudo man Ben had ever seen in his life, and everyone around him kept saying it was significant, that there was only  _ one _ male Gerudo born every hundred years. Ben did not know much, but he knew bullshit when he heard it.

Ganondorf Dragmire did not bother him, despite his heart pounding and his hair standing on end and his mind completely going blank in his presence. The man owed him no kindness, but Ben had never caused him offense. It was simply that Ganondorf Dragmire was a man to be feared. He crossed the street without looking both ways like he expected the horses to recoil in fear (they did) and the drivers veer off course to protect themselves (they did). He strode between Ben and Aryll like they were invisible, the golden chain that dangled freely from his pocket dared any ambitious street rat to reach out and take it (they did not.) 

He paused, straightened his smart black suit and his crimson brocade waistcoat, and opened the doors. The cold air that washed over Ben and Aryll felt… bad, corrupted with malice somehow.

The two women circled the park. They were old, bones crumbling to dust from the inside, so they always seemed to be leaning forward into their dark velvet dresses. Their red hair had faded to silver, and they hid their wrinkles with dark veils pinned to their hats. They would not cross the street to buy his paper. They would not pick one up if they saw it discarded on the stone trails. They would never speak to anyone but each other. When he had been younger, much more reckless, Ben had tailed them around the park to listen to their whispering. They spoke of a terrible fire as if the smoke had been hanging in the air, but there was no smoke and no fire. They had caught him spying and they had fixed them with their two golden eyes and Ben had felt himself quietly hexed.

A terrible fire broke out that night, laying waste to Ganondorf Dragmire’s competition and just  _ barely _ stopping short of the alley he had slept in the night before. Ben had never set foot near them again.

They moved slowly, one sister holding a black lace parasol to shade them and the other a feathered fan to cool them as they shuffled carefully around the walking trail, the inner triangle first, clockwise, the outer triangle second, counterclockwise, the same way they walked it every day. It was as if they knew, somehow, how slow and measured each step had to be so that they would have completed their walk the exact instant their son left the temple. It was so every day, and so certain that the hair raised on Ben’s neck when they turned that last corner, and Aryll froze on her side of the stairs, wanting to hide behind him, wanting to hide in the bushes, wanting to hide under her wheelbarrow; but too terrified Mister Dragmire would  _ see her hiding _ to dare.

The doors burst open. Ben’s skin crawled and Aryll shrank down where she sat. Whatever happened, Mister Dragmire was not pleased. Ben could feel it in the air. He could hear it in the man’s steps. He knew because the two Gerudo women were not done with their walk yet. His hands clenched into fists. His teeth clamped down on his lower lip and Aryll whimpered. Days, months, and years Mister Dragmire had been walking past them without so much as a word. Today he stopped. He turned to Aryll. Today he spoke.

“Your brother works in my mine.”

Ben was not entirely sure what they were supposed to make of that information.

“Yes.” Aryll did not meet his eyes.

“Your sister works in my factory.”

“Yes.”

He took a flower and did not pay for it. Ben jumped to his feet to tell him off immediately but the man fixed Ben with a stare that was too cold for his golden eyes and crushed the Silent Princess in his fist, letting the flower petals tumble down, “Flowers are free and fragile, perhaps you should consider a different business venture.”

Perhaps Ben was a little too brave. He bellowed as loudly as he could (which was quite loud.) “BUY A PAPER, SIR?”

To his shock, and a little to his satisfaction, Mister Dragmire twitched, just a little. Maybe it was rage and Ben had sealed his doom. Maybe it was carefully cloaked fear. Ben wanted to think so. He wanted to think he had shocked the man, though his face did not stretch and his jaw did not slacken. His voice remained level; “Why would I buy your paper, when it comes free from the mouths of gossips?”

Ben was certain he was too brave, but when he died of pox or plague or poor nutrition, he would smile at the memory of this moment; “You might fancy something to clean up with once you take your head out of your ass.”

Aryll was  _ horrified.  _ Her hands flew to her mouth and Ben worried she was about to start crying she was so scared. Ben felt the blood rush to his ears as his heart began to pound like an engine in anticipation of the fatal rain of bullets Mister Dragmire was sure to put into his chest. The man towered over him, his eyes almost glowed with rage, but his voice was calm, “You might find your boldness would be more useful if you acted to benefit yourself, rather than spoke to impress a girl.”

Ben let him have the last word. He was satisfied with his quip, and Mister Dragmire was right. Ben did use his boldness to benefit himself, but he could try to apply himself to a more meaningful position; he could  _ write _ the articles instead of describing them. He could milk a good idea for two thousand words or more, and two thousand words would get him more than selling papers. If he got a camera, that would be all the better.

He watched Mister Dragmire and his mothers leave from his perch on the stairs, and he felt just as accomplished and powerful as a general with the high ground. The blood drained from his ears and his heart slowed down. The fear was replaced with light-headed giddiness. He sat down with a chuckle, taking a breath to congratulate himself.

“If you do that again; I’ll find a new set of stairs.”

He did not want Aryll to find a new set of stairs. These were his stairs. He had scrapped and bullied and clawed for these stairs. It was the best spot in town; it was popular with pilgrims and tourists and state officials, he had no shortage of customers.  Aryll had given him food; and like a good stray she would never be rid of him. What was he to do if she left? Take a lesser corner, or suffer in silence while someone else got  _ his _ half her lunch?

“I’ll never do it again.”

The day went on, and so did the people. It felt like he sold out of the evening edition twice as fast. He was down to his last copy before the heat of the day was even properly started. As he usually did after he pocketed his profit, he kept that one for himself. It had endless uses once he had read through it, and he  _ had _ paid for it. He handed Aryll a page to use as a fan. In the breeze she made, he ran his fingers through his hair and gathered it back in a loose knot. He took a page for himself and they fanned themselves off and on, watching the ministers leave for rich dinners at grand clubs, leaving their aides and clerks to work until twilight started to creep its way across the sky. 

Once the air had cooled and they did not need to fan themselves, Aryll stretched out and rolled the cloth she used to protect her flowers under her head. Ben focused on the paper. It was strange to see a front page paper without a pictograph; or even a drawing, but cameras were not allowed in the private rooms of the royal home, and the story was rushed to print, no time to wait for a sketch to be made.

_ Traitor in the Walls _ the headline screamed,  _ Foreign Agents responsible for National Tragedy. _

_ At three am, on the thirteenth of Irenas, Princess Zelda was found distraught in her chambers, her personal bodyguard, Impa Sheikston, was beside her. Stoic, as one would expect of a soldier of the highest caliber, however, it was not her natural disposition that made her stand so admirably, but magic most foul. The woman had been petrified, turned to stone in the line of duty...  _

“Miss Blanchard!” Aryll interrupted him. 

Miss Blanchard’s painted mouth smiled as Aryll sprung up. The only woman with redder hair was Marin, but Miss Blanchard’s glowed with a golden sheen. She wore her hair in a complex coil of braids and curls that held a round, extravagant hat in place. A mesh veil shaded her green eyes, and ended at the tip of her delicate nose, “Is that the last paper, Ben?”

“It is, ma’am.”

“Did Pip buy the evening edition?”

Constable Motacill’s pet-name never failed to make him choke on a giggle, “N-no Miss Blanchard. Haven’t seen him.”

She frowned; but it did not look mad or upset. “Well, Miss Listfield will surely keep me informed. Have you seen her today?”

“Yes. She went to the station with the constable when he arrested Link Delaire.”

_ Now _ Miss Blanchard’s frown looked genuine. She looked offended at the accusation that her dear Pip was even a policeman, let alone one that  _ made arrests.  _ She clutched a cameo at her throat and breathed, “That kind young man? Pip really arrested him?”

“Had him in irons, Miss!” Ben feigned a grave tone, “Marched him right to the station. I did not see Miss Listfield leave, and she did not return here if she did, but I was not looking. It was a good say for sales.”

“I’d imagine it was.” Miss Blanchard shuddered, “How unfortunate for her majesty—Indeed, a ghastly fate for Lady Impa. I shudder to think… The two of you, do get off the streets quickly tonight. Pip always says the criminal returns to the scene of the crime.” her eyes shifted to the palace across the park. “This place is far too close to the palace for anyone to be here after dark.”

“Marin will be back soon.” Aryll assured her.

Miss Blanchard’s green eyes turned to Ben, strained with worry, “And you, Ben?”

“I’ll keep myself safe.”

She seemed soothed. She fiddled with the cuff of her glove and continued on her way to the police station. The bell chimed to signal the end of the work day. As Aryll had assured Miss Blanchard, Marin came back with the current of people heading to their own homes. She swept Aryll away with her, leaving Ben alone on the steps in darkness, where he waited patiently as it grew more dark, more cold, and the time between the people walking past became longer and longer.

He was used to Gonzo being late—when Gonzo was on time it felt like he was  _ early.   _ Ben sighed and searched the street, left then right, without the lamps he only had Din’s fire, a few lit windows, and the moon to see by. No sign of Gonzo. No sound of horses or boys chattering. He picked himself up and tucked the paper under his arm. Without Aryll, there was nothing keeping him; he had walked back before. He would walk back again. He would probably walk back in the future.

So he started walking.

He did not get far until the fog shifted and the clouds moved and he saw something gleaming in the gutter. Gleaming things were usually costly things, things he could take to a pawn shop. He knelt down to snatch it up. He brushed off dead leaves and a blurry sales receipt. It was a pin, missing the backing, obviously that was why it had fallen off. It was a star-like cluster of Pearls and gemstones. In the low light he could not tell what color they were, but he could see them gleaming. Maybe he would not sell it—by the time Aryll was old enough to wear it he might have found a back to hold it in place.

Ganondorf’s advice echoed around in the back of his head as he examined the pin. He could sell it, buy a camera, and earn enough to get her  _ hundreds _ of jeweled pins… Or he could hold onto it. He  _ was _ a paperboy—if the owner had any money, a reward would be posted in a week or less. Surely a reward would be  _ more _ that what a pawnshop was willing to give?

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Every nerve caught fire.


End file.
